


Another Way 'Round the Problem

by Alyson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, Meddling Sherlock, Please Forgive me, my terrible description of John coming to terms with his sexuality, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyson/pseuds/Alyson
Summary: John finally admits to himself that he's not entirely heterosexual. He isn't entirely sure how Sherlock is going to react to this information, however.Originally published on FF.net on 9/6/2012 as Astrild Niflheim.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 30





	1. Too Much for One Day

**Author's Note:**

> I have had several phases of fan fic writing. The one before my current incarnation was back in 2012 when I wrote a grand total of 2 Sherlock stories. Every time I would go through these phases (which I think I only did three times, but I may be missing one from my Harry Potter days) I would totally reinvent myself and not mention the previous incarnation, just that I've been out of the loop for awhile and while I'm not new to fandom I'm new to whatever fandom I've picked up. These new 'personalities' were a direct reflection of whatever turmoil I was going through at the time.
> 
> I actually wish I hadn't done that now, though I understand why I did. I've had a few computer crashes over the years and have lost data, so unless I know where my fan fic is online, I don't have copies, not of the older stuff. I was lucky I remembered where I had put these stories and was able to suss out what my pseudonym was at the time or I wouldn't have even these two, but I've lost so much more. The most devastating of the these losses have been my very first stories from 1999 and the early 2000's. I used the pen name KRA and wrote Joxer/Autolycus slash.
> 
> I think the most hurtful part of that is finding the shells of archives that were backed up by some web project, but not backed up deep enough. In one case I found my entire author page with the titles and info for all of my Xena stories, but all the links broken. Another one I found a Paris/Kim page that you can see me in a drop down menu, but nothing past the A's works. Oh well, just something I have to accept, and I did expect. A lot of fan fic sites got ravaged before we had AO3.
> 
> Well, I'm done with my pity party LOL. Please enjoy these really old fics and I'll get back to the stories I'm supposed to be writing soon. And if you haven't already (and are able to), think about supporting this archive. They are a blessing.

"So, that's it then."

"Yes, I'm afraid so. You do understand where I'm coming from, don't you?"

John did. He always understood these conversations, but it was amazing – Amy was being far nicer about it than the last half-dozen.

"Yes," he sighed. "You're breaking up with me because I'm not present enough in our relationship, as you just pointed out."

"Yes," she confirmed, taking a sip of her drink. "You're not spending time with me because you're on call to Sherlock twenty-four seven."

"We solve crimes together. Crime does not stop just because I'm on a date."

"John, the last time you left suddenly it was because he had 'a couple of ideas he just wanted to run by you.' I believe he even said in the text message it could wait."

"And if I had let it wait, he would have pouted for days."

"I know, and that's why I'm not mad. The truth of the matter is, you're already in a relationship. There's no room for me."

And that was the crux of it. Every time he tried to have a normal relationship with a woman, he was reminded that Sherlock was his boyfriend. Everywhere he went, it was implied by people that they interacted with that he and Sherlock were involved. It was even in the papers, with the politely put 'bachelor John Watson.' People were talking, especially his potential girlfriends.

So basically, Sherlock Holmes had ruined yet another relationship.

"Alright. I'm sorry to waste your time, have a good life."

John left the café in a rotten mood, walking down the street towards his flat with his hands buried in his pockets and his shoulders up around his ears. He and Sherlock were decidedly not in a relationship. Ok, they were, but not in a *romantic* relationship. He didn't even like men.

And then John stopped, straightened his posture, closed his eyes and sighed. After everything he had been through, all the death and blood and loss….

So why was he going to keep denying himself something that could make him happy? Why was he going to continue chasing after the traditional dream of a woman to marry? He had always been attracted to women, that was true… but he had always been attracted to men just a little bit more. He didn't know what to call himself. Was he bisexual? He certainly wasn't heterosexual as he had spent his entire life telling himself he was, and he was tired of trying to be.

School, university, the Army… there were always attractive men around and he always noticed. Even now he did. He just always pushed it to the back of his mind. This interest hadn't just crept up on him, it had always been a normal part of who he was. He just didn't necessarily want to be that person.

And what about Sherlock? John made it back home after finally making himself start walking again after what was really an earth shattering coming out – if only to himself – and entered the flat he shared with the detective to find the man in question stretched out on the couch, still in his night-clothes, eyes closed and hands steepled. Well, what about him? So what if he was the possibly the most beautiful, and mad, man he had ever known?

John groaned as he let a thought slide through his brain that he had worked long and hard to keep out. He hadn't even realized he *had* any thoughts like that, but he supposed it made sense. Sherlock had been everything to him for months now, and bloody hell he was in love with him.

"So I take it went badly," Sherlock said in response to the moan, never opening his eyes.

"What? Oh, yes, well, it was a break up meeting."

"Plenty of fish in the sea and all that. Hand me the pen and paper on the desk, would you?"

"Sure. Tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

John went in to the kitchen, knowing his offer to make tea was just to give him a moment to think. Alright, he had finally admitted to himself he liked men, and had acknowledged to himself that he loved one in particular. That was probably enough traumas for one day, but he knew he wasn't done. He knew that he was ready to move on with his life, but it wasn't going to be with Sherlock.

The entire situation made him feel a little sick. He had always imagined that falling in love would be wonderful, but being in love with Sherlock… the man had made it clear from the beginning that he was married to his work. And even if he weren't, John really had no way of knowing if the man was interested in men or women. It had always been implied that he was gay, but that seemed to mainly be because no one had seen him with a woman and the doctor moving in with him sealed it in everyone's minds.

Regardless of Sherlock's orientation, this falling in love bit was miserable. John's life had changed utterly in one day, maybe even in just one hour, and it really made no difference in the end. The first man he loved was destined to remain his best friend and flatmate. His admitting how he felt wasn't going to change anything about that. But that didn't mean he had to stay at a standstill. He could continue what he had with the taller man, and be satisfied with it, while looking for the second man he would love.

It's really what he had been doing all along, he reasoned, he had just been looking in the wrong direction. But how was he going to tell Sherlock that he was going to start dating men? Well, maybe he wouldn't tell him, not right away.

"Tea's on, Sherlock."

"Wonderful. Grab my phone on the way by the desk, would you?"

"Sure."

John deposited the tea on the floor by Sherlock's head and the phone into his hand. The other man finally sat up, picked up his mug, and looked at John for the first time since the doctor had walked through the door.

"What happened to you?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"You're a bit more rumpled than you should be by the break up. Your tone of voice when you told me about it, what little you said, was perfectly clear – it was expected and you weren't devastated. However, you look like you've been on a roller coaster, with the way your hair is sticking up, I imagine from you running your hands through it and tugging on it, as if to try to jump start you thinking process. Clearly, Dr. Watson, something far more interesting than a break up has just happened to you."

John stopped himself from groaning. Just. Of course Sherlock could see that something was up, there was no point in lying to him, or trying to hide it. Which meant there was no way he was going to be able to keep him from figuring out how he felt. Hell, the man probably knew already, way before John did. He could only hope that Sherlock had made the decision not to point it out before because he wanted to keep the status quo, and that he would continue to do so and let them both go on blissfully as if nothing had changed. There was only one way to insure that – enough truth to satisfy the man's one hundred mile per hour brain.

"Well, it wasn't so much the break up that upset me as it was the implications. I can't seem to keep a steady relationship going. Honestly, Sherlock, I have a lot of thinking to do and I can't share information with you that I don't have."

"What on earth do you have to think about? So you haven't found a woman that will tolerate your work. That's one reason I don't bother with those types of relationships. Entirely too dull. You should just give up the dating and stick with me."

"Really? What would people say?" John asked with some humor, feeling his heart skip a beat all the same.

"Oh, you know what I meant," Sherlock griped, taking a drink of his tea and smirking at his friend.

The look the detective was giving him made his stomach do an odd little flip he had never noticed before, but was sure he had felt around him. Unfortunately, he knew exactly what Sherlock meant, and it wasn't what he would have liked, but he had already made his peace with that. He hoped he had, anyhow. Wasn't he still under the illusion that he was a perfectly heterosexual male on his way to see his girlfriend just that morning? It seemed like weeks ago.

"Well, I do need to think whether you think I do or not," he finally managed, gathering up their mugs and taking them to the kitchen before heading up to his room. "I'll be upstairs if you need me."

He locked himself away quietly to ponder what he was going to do now, hoping he had giving Sherlock enough to satisfy himself. It had been one hell of a day for John Watson, and there was entirely too much of it left.


	2. I Don't Like What I Don't Understand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter: Sherlock's POV. Should have warned it was going to flip flop, though I haven't decided if it's always going to be one after the other or if you might get two in row from the same POV. We shall see!

John went off to work the next day, and so did Sherlock. In Sherlock's case, however, that was to wait until John was gone, pretending to be bored as he laid on the couch facing the back, and then jumping up and running into the other man's room when he was sure he wasn't coming back for a forgotten… well, whatever John would forget. A spare jumper or something. He flung open the door and went straight for John's laptop, easily hacking in. As usual. He just didn't understand why John bothered locking it.

Sherlock had spent most of the day before wondering what had happened to John. Oh, he knew what John had told him had happened, but he knew he wasn't being told the entire truth. John liked to think he could keep the investigator off his arse if he gave him half-truths and left unsaid all the truly interesting bits.

Yes, he was sure John needed to think. By the state of his shoes and pants legs when he came in – fresh scuffs, more than a walk from the corner, and mud splashes, crossing streets he didn't need to get home – he had done a lot of thinking already. And Sherlock was perfectly aware that the other man had issues thinking around him, which is why he did almost all of it on walks. The detective allowed himself a small smirk at that thought, knowing full well why John had trouble thinking around him (accelerated heart rate, dilated eyes, slight blush, usually starting at the ears) and wondered if John was ever going to figure it out. Sherlock had enough sense to know *that* wasn't something he could point out. John would *not* thank him for that. He might punch him. And John hit hard.

So what had he been doing in his room for over *two hours*? He had to have been researching something online, or writing in his blog. Sherlock had already opened the folders John kept his work in progress posts but nothing had been added, not since their last case. He even opened the folder of posts that John wrote but never published, but all he found new was a rant on how Sherlock kept disgracing their small appliances with his experiments. The man in question frowned. He'd have to remember to replace the toaster. Today, preferably.

Finding nothing useful there, and no other new files on the hard drive, he opened up the browser and … John had erased his browser history. Sherlock tried other tricks he knew to see where John had been online recently – checking his cookies, recovering his last session, typing every letter in the alphabet into a search engine just to see what would pop up in the drop down menu – but he got nowhere. Clearly John *had* finally learned how to keep Sherlock from finding out what he had been up to online. His continued use of a password to lock his computer must have just been to lull the other man. Interesting.

It was time to Google John Watson.

"Have a good day?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly from his chair when John finally arrived home later in the day. He didn't bother looking up from his paper, interested in hearing how John sounded before he took in his physical state.

"Yeah, it went quickly. Enough patients, but nothing too horrible. You got a new case?"

He sounded fine. Relaxed even. Much better than he had the day before. Even after spending that inordinate amount of time in his room (doing god knew what, since Google had failed to turn up anything he didn't already know, sad story of his life), he had been anything but relaxed when he finally came down, offering to get take away. When Sherlock asked, he just said he still needed to think, though it was clear that he was doing the opposite of actually thinking. Worse yet, he had been gone longer than necessary to pick up food and the said food was cold when he got home. Sherlock made a mental note to also replace the microwave.

"No," he replied, folding the paper back to the next page and snapping it to straighten it.

"Oh, just thought you must have and was just waiting for me to get home. Seeing as you're dressed and everything."

Sherlock graced him with his most winning scowl. It was the one he reserved for annoying flatmates.

"I do not just lie around all day in my bath robe."

"No, you don't, but you usually only get dressed if you have a case, you have an experiment, or you're going out, which usually involves a case or an experiment. And the kitchen doesn't *smell* like death, and it still looks pretty much as it did when I left, so I'm left with case."

"Very good, you're starting to be more observant, but you do have room for improvement. You haven't opened the fridge."

"Don't want to."

Sherlock put down his paper and grinned at him, noting the suddenly dilating eyes, the slight blush rising on his cheeks (interesting, his reaction is a bit more overt today) and the twitch of the doctor's left hand. He thought about letting John off the hook and telling him there was nothing in the fridge other than what had already been there before and that he was right, but he decided that the other man wouldn't learn that way. Instead he leaned back in his chair and waited.

"Tea?"

"Yes please."

Give John a grin, make him blush, he runs off to make tea. Perfect. He wondered…. If their relationship was allowed to progress to a more, say, one on one situation, would he still be able to chase John into the kitchen with a smile, the other thinking it was his own idea to get beverages or food? Probably not. He was sure he could figure out another way, though. That would be an experiment for when John was actually ready for it. Too soon and he'd be out a roommate and best friend. Couldn't have that.

"So I guess you're bored, then," John huffed good naturedly from the kitchen, continuing their conversation.

"No."

Suddenly, John stuck his head back into the front room, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

"What are you up to?"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock was honestly flummoxed. He saw most things coming, but John still could keep him on his toes. It was lovely. Most of the time.

"You don't have a case, you're not doing an experiment – I checked the fridge – and you're dressed. To *shoes*. Sherlock Holmes does not just sit around watching telley and reading the paper, unless he's bored, and then there's much whining, pouting, and firing of pistols into walls."

"Just the one wall."

"The number of walls is unimportant. You're not bored, then you're trying to figure something out. And considering your interest in what happened when I went out yesterday, I have a horrible feeling it's *me* you're trying to figure out…. Have you hacked my computer again?"

"Why do you bother pass coding it?"

John rolled his eyes and returned to the kitchen.

"I do that in the vain hope that you'll eventually *get the hint* and mind your own business."

Sherlock finally started pouting, drawing his eyebrows together and letting a petulant note creep into his voice.

"Half your files involve retellings of our cases, which, incidentally, has to include me, so they are my business."

"Then stay out of the other half!"

"How else am I going to deduce what's going on with you currently? You don't seem to be able to tell me, so I need to find out another way. What ever happened to 'ooh, your deductions are brilliant, Sherlock, tell me how you did that?'"

John brought their tea out and Sherlock realized quickly that he was grateful for the doctor's self-control. The look on his face told him exactly where he wanted to put Sherlock's tea, and it wasn't in the mug and in the man's hand.

"Thank you so much for making me sound like a teenage girl, falsetto and all, which is very unbecoming in your voice, by the way. And I have said you were brilliant, but I've never said it like that."

Sherlock laughed a little and inclined his head, non-verbally conceding that point. And maybe apologizing a little. Maybe.

"Seriously, Sherlock, your ability to see everything around you is incredible," John sighed, sitting in his chair across from Sherlock's, "but not when you're aiming that ability at me. I'm sure you can tell I'm better today, and yeah, I spent the time I was upstairs yesterday online, and yes I've learned to delete *everything.* I'm not ready to tell you what's going on in my head, but I will tell you. Eventually. Can you trust me? Please?"

Sherlock had been examining him while he spoke, but he stopped and softened his gaze. He needed to trust John; he knew that, because he needed John to trust him. Not just with his life, either. He needed John to eventually trust him with everything. And wasn't that just fantastic? He had to give up his favorite hobby – Figuring Out Dr. John Watson – so he could eventually be trusted with the man's heart. And how was he going to win that heart if he didn't figure him out? He supposed that was part of this entire trusting thing.

Sherlock reached over and cupped one of John's hands.

"Alright," he said, his voice low and soft. "I'll try my best, but it is hard to just turn it off."

John smiled at him and he noted how his breathing had picked up a bit and how their touch had given him goose bumps. And how John had had a similar reaction. Sherlock pulled back and stood suddenly, full of his usually energy, startling the shorter man into leaning back and nearly spilling his mug.

"I'm going appliance shopping. Want to go with?"

"Good lord, yes. I hope you're planning to get a new blender."


	3. Matches

"Well, any luck?" John asked Mrs Wilcox, the matchmaker he had found online.

In all that thinking, John had decided that waiting for everything to really sink in was not the route to go. If he sat and analysed too long, one of two things would have happened: he would have either locked himself in his room forever, or he would have confessed everything to Sherlock and watched as the man shut down and picked up his violin, never to speak to John again.

Neither struck him as a good idea.

So, he threw himself into the dating scene. He briefly thought about using one of those relationship websites, but he quickly determined that even if he only listed his name as John, Sherlock would find it. Plus there was the fact that he had been in the papers recently. The world's only consulting detective had been the main focus, but he had been there, in the background. He thought actually going to a matchmaker would really be his best bet, having another human screen his dates and all. Eliminate the loonies. One loony in his life was enough.

"Of course dear," Mrs Wilcox replied with a smile. "Doctor looking for a steady relationship – there's plenty of nice young men who would queue up to meet you. I've narrowed it down to five possibilities, with two who are your best matches. I just have a question or two and we can set up the meetings."

"Alright, ready whenever you are," he smiled, feeling more than a bit awkward.

Mrs Wilcox leaned across the desk, her motherly look becoming a bit more intense. Before she had reminded him of a chubby Mrs Hudson, but now she had a look that reminded him a bit more of Mycroft Holmes. Disturbing.

"I, of course, have seen the papers and the news. I know who you are, though I give you credit that you really haven't tried to hide anything. My concern isn't so much with your line of work, but with who you work with. I was given to understand that you and this Mr Holmes are already in a relationship, and that you're living together."

"Oh! No, no, you misunderstand, like everyone else I'm afraid," he chuckled a little self-consciously. "We're best friends, roomies, colleagues, but nothing romantic or anything like it. Sherlock, well, he just doesn't *do* that sort of thing. He's all about the next case. And he's really not my type, anyhow."

"Really?" She picked up the application and adjusted her reading glasses. "You're looking for someone who is 'intelligent, opinionated, strong willed and passionate about the things that matter to him.' I took the opportunity to read your blog. These are some of the words you used to describe your flatmate."

"Yes, I also used words like sarcastic, disdainful, rude, self-centred and I could have easily used the words asexual and uninterested in human contact of any kind if I didn't have some respect for the man's privacy."

"Yes, I understand. I'm sorry if I have upset you, but I just wanted to be sure that we weren't going to end up with a jealous boyfriend. It wouldn't do my reputation any good to have a genius detective stalking any of my clients."

"It won't come to that, I assure you."

"Good! Let's talk about the man I think is the best match for you… Jeremy."

000000

Sherlock had managed to keep off of him for three days. The first two days had obviously been hell for him. John could tell by first the screeching of the violin, followed by the screeching of the tube and then finally the screeching of the Holmes as he got into a rather heated argument with the new microwave. Luckily, for everyone, Sherlock had won. The next day was much better, thanks to a timely text from Lestrade with details of a new case.

It took thirty minutes to get to the country house just outside of London proper and Sherlock spent the entire time peering out the window of the police car that had picked them up. John didn't know what to make of the silence except that he was sure the detective was watching him through the reflection. He was trying to be discreet, John was sure, in order to keep his promise, but that was a hard promise to keep for a man like Sherlock Holmes.

When they arrived, it was to a manor house, richly appointed in furnishings and a young woman of about twenty four, richly appointed in a fur coat, lying dead in the vestibule. John watched in his usual fascination as Sherlock prowled around the body, leaning in close to inspect her hands, her jewellery, the bruising around her neck, the state of her shoes and stockings – John suspected that the dark haired man even sniffed her. He was sure he did as he watched Sherlock make a circuit around her, spiralling outwards, no longer looking at the victim but sniffing the air around her.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, noting the odd behaviour.

"There's an odour," Sherlock drew out, not looking at anyone but at everything around them. He had a pensive look on his face as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his long coat. "I see you have the murder weapon, Anderson."

"Yeah, right here," the pale investigator answered brusquely, showing Sherlock an evidence bag with a multi-coloured scarf inside. "Sorry, already bagged."

John felt like hitting the snarky face, but Sherlock simply sneered and shook his head.

"Would have been better if you hadn't disturbed the crime scene," he bit out sarcastically, "but I've got all I need from that, bagged or no. Crime of passion, I dare say," he continued in a more conversational tone as he turned to the DI. "Where's the husband?"

John followed as they were led into a sitting room where they found a slightly overweight middle aged man sitting in a chair sobbing into a handkerchief. It seemed that Mr Devlin, from what John could make out between the sobs, had just arrived home from a business meeting to find his young wife, Bernadette, dead on the floor. He was sure it was her boyfriend, Greg Winston, whom had killed her. She had been having an affair, which she often did in their mostly sham of a marriage, but Mr Winston had been more of a problem than most. He had started demanding money. Martin Devlin had insisted that she break it off with him before the wrong people found out, namely the board members at his company. Mr Winston hadn't realized that the husband knew all about the girl's philandering and certainly assumed he could black mail her. He must have killed her in his shock.

"Yes," Sherlock drawled in the tone that let John know he wasn't buying it for one minute. Suddenly, he about faced and whipped out of the room, past the body, and out of the house, John rushing to keep up. "I need to speak to the boyfriend!"

They climbed into the patrol car that was their escort and headed back to London.

"Was it the husband?" John asked, sure that's what Sherlock was thinking.

"More likely than the boyfriend. Despite what he said, Mr Devlin had no idea about Mr Winston, Mrs Devlin was not breaking up with Mr Winston and I'm certain that neither Mr nor Mrs Devlin bought that horrid scarf. It was too cheap, everything else she was wearing was costly, but she wore that scarf. No. It was not, I think, the boyfriend. The final clue was right there on the floor."

"The scarf?"

"No. Didn't you see? The matches, John, the matches!"

John winced; he briefly thought he had been caught out, his mind on a different type of match. Then he remembered – there had been two spent matches on the floor a few feet from the body.

0000000

The boyfriend had been an even bigger mess than the husband. He hadn't known Bernadette had been murdered and he sat at the table in his small apartment smoking cigarette after cigarette, making John's head swim from all the smoke. He was thankful he specified a non-smoker on his dating profile. At least Sherlock only smoked when the patches just weren't enough - and he thought he could get away with it.

"We were supposed to meet up today, this morning, but she didn't show. I thought she lost her nerve, was going to call her later, but she's dead?"

"Yes. Why were you going to meet?"

"What? She was leaving her husband, taking the money he keeps in the safe, her jewellery, was going to empty her account, she wanted to move to France. Start over."

The boyfriend paused to light up again, flicking his lighter and inhaling as he introduced the flame to the end of the cigarette. His hands shook and the tears had never stopped flowing, though he wasn't vocalizing his pain.

"Thank you, that's all I need," Sherlock said curtly as he rose from the table and headed out of the flat.

"Sorry for your loss," John hurriedly added as he followed Sherlock out.

He barely made it in time to crawl into the cab beside him. Sherlock was busy texting. John leaned in close to see what he was sending, and to whom. He nearly pulled back when he felt the other man's dark curls brush against his face. He quickly stifled that urge, knowing that reaction would attract more attention than just being close enough to smell his shampoo. It was a text to Lestrade, instructing him to arrest the husband. Sherlock turned to the doctor, entirely too close now that they were facing, but neither pulled back.

"The husband smokes cigars, expensive cigars," Sherlock explained, a gleam in his eyes as he gripped John's upper arm, keeping him close so he could keep his voice low. "The body smelled of cigars, not cigarettes, and she was dressed to leave, not coming in, her shoes were clean, she hadn't recently been outside, she hadn't met her boyfriend and brought him back, why would she do that? No, she was leaving, the husband – the husband! – he came home early, caught her in the act and she had to admit what was going on! She was wearing that cheap scarf, the one the boyfriend had bought her and in a fit of rage the husband strangled her with it. The most important clue, however, was the matches on the floor. The same as the matches in the sitting room by the humidor. He didn't call the police right away, he took the time to smoke two cigars waiting for the right time, waiting for when he *should* have gotten home. Oh, he thought he had a scapegoat in the boyfriend, but he didn't plan it out! It was all done in the heat of the moment! He was sloppy! It was so obvious!"

All John could do was bask in his friend's excited gaze, the grey eyes filled with the triumph of having figured out something far faster than Scotland Yard ever could. And it was so simple for him. John loved these moments. He loved Sherlock's excitement. He loved *Sherlock*. He pulled back before he did something entirely too stupid.

"That was brilliant."

Sherlock just grinned in reply.

000000

It hadn't been hard to get out of 221B. Sherlock was still answering Lestrade's questions and getting steadily more annoyed, so he wasn't really interested in what John was up to.

John sat nervously at the table of the outdoor café he and Jeremy had agreed to meet up at. The doctor had made sure that it was several blocks from his place. No sense in running into Sherlock if the other man got the urge to go for a walk. He really wasn't ready to explain this.

"Dr Watson, I presume?" a humour filled voice behind him asked.

John stood up with a smile, turning around to shake hands with a very blonde, very green eyed, slightly younger man – and felt a little thrill go up his spine. He was really doing this. And as the date progressed, he decided that while Jeremy could never hold a candle to his moody flatmate, he was very nice, and John thought that he might actually like him.


	4. And the Shoe Drops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV will flip flop in this chapter.

"Sherlock? I'm going out."

"Hmmm," Sherlock acknowledged, not looking up from his microscope. The last case had been a decent distraction, but it had been a bit too obvious. Lestrade actually would have figured it out in a few days, likely after the forensics came back – he depended entirely too much on that and not enough on his own senses. Now the detective was just trying to preoccupy himself with some research so he wouldn't preoccupy himself with John's odd behaviour. Stupid promise.

He heard John sigh and realized that he may have been expected to look up and actually say something. John really should have known better. The door closed and he listened as the doctor made his way down the stairs and out the front door.

"Bored," Sherlock muttered to himself.

What exactly was it that he promised John? He ran over their conversation in his mind. Yes, he had promised he wouldn't try to figure out what was going on in his head. He didn't promise he wouldn't try and figure out what he was up to. Sooooo. He could find out what his roommate was doing but not try and speculate the motivations behind it. Excellent! Back to John's laptop.

"Damn," he muttered as he looked around the other's bedroom. No laptop.

He went back downstairs and checked around the living area and the kitchen. Clearly, John had taken it with him. Considering the man's case was gone, that had to be what he did. Sherlock smirked. At least John was learning. However, that required him to use a different tactic, one that was likely to annoy John. Well, it was his own fault, wasn't it? He pulled out his cell phone and started typing.

We need orange juice – SH

Then go get some – JW

The reply took longer than he thought it should. Longer than it normally would have. That was telling.

Can't. Busy. Pick some up? – SH

Can't. Busy. Go out later. – JW

Busy doing what? – SH

None of your business. – JW

Nowhere near a shop? – SH

No – JW

Stop into one on way home. – SH

No. Not on the way. – JW

We need eggs, too. – SH

You don't eat eggs. – JW

Not going to eat them. – SH

Don't want to know. – JW

There's a shop just down the street. – SH

Exactly. – JW

Turning off phone now. Behave, Sherlock. – JW

That was interesting. Clearly John was on a date. And now Sherlock had an idea of where he was.

0000

Not every line of deduction paid off. Granted, the information he had gotten from John had actually given him three possible directions to go in search of his friend and he had chosen the mostly likely based on places he had taken women in the past. Clearly John hadn't gone that way.

Giving up and deciding to just wait for John to get home (he could find out so much more from John's behaviour than any other clue the other man left), he headed back to Baker Street. And stopped dead.

John had arrived home. And he had certainly been on a date. Yes, he was kissing said date good bye and laughing and smiling. It didn't happen very often, not to him, but Sherlock's stomach dropped. John had clearly come to grips with being attracted to men, and he hadn't felt comfortable telling Sherlock. It was a surprise that it actually upset him so much. Oh, he knew he was far more threatened by this blond statue kissing John than any of his female companions, but he knew he could handle the situation. It was John not talking to him about it, springing it on him like this, that was the problem.

He came to a decision very quickly on how he was going to 'handle' the situation and John deserved every bit of it for not giving him some kind of warning.

00000

John had had a very nice time with Jeremy. The matchmaker had been right – they had a lot in common and got on very well. He was also finding that holding hands and now kissing someone of the same gender was just as, if not more, comfortable for him than when he had been dating women.

"I think I'm ready for you to meet my flatmate, if you are," he suggested.

"I'm thrilled to," Jeremy smiled. "I really want to meet this man you keep talking about. Your adventures together sound amazing."

"Just, please, remember… he doesn't know I've started dating men. He'll deduce it himself once he meets you and after you leave we'll have to talk, but I think it will be easier this way."

"Of course, don't worry. I'll do my best to keep my hands off of you."

John laughed, but his mirth was short lived. A familiar, but oddly off, voice was hailing him from the street and quickly approaching.

"John! Wonderful, you're home!"

Sherlock had joined them on the stoop with more alacrity than John thought possible, not that much thinking was going on in his head at the moment. This should have been a nightmare scenario, but… Sherlock was smiling. And his voice was friendly. It was… sickeningly sweet, cheery, 'I'm about to pull something,' friendly. He'd done that before, putting on an act to get someone to trust him, to not see how he was dissecting every inch of them…

Dear. God. No.

"It's about time you brought your friend over," he said, wrapping one around John's shoulders and planting a kiss on his cheek that shocked the doctor more than if Sherlock had punched him. He stuck his hand out to Jeremy. "Sherlock Holmes, John's colleague, friend, and live-in. And you are?"

"Completely out of my depth, I'm afraid," the other smiled nervously, taking the proffered hand. "Jeremy. John led me to believe you had no idea about me?"

"Pish, he should know better, of course I did. Now, you two come on up and I'll put on the kettle."

And Sherlock pranced up the stairs. Pranced. Live in? John wanted to cry. And scream. He thought he wanted to scream a whole lot more. Yes, he was going with scream.

"I didn't think he'd be like that," Jeremy admitted, a bit confused.

"He's not. That was so out of character… oh, he's mad at me for not telling him. I shouldn't have just brought you over, I should have warned him. He's very good at chasing people off and I think that's what he's trying to do with you."

"Well, it's working."

John looked up at him startled.

"Don't let him get to you. He's just being an ass. Once he gets used to it he'll treat you with as much disinterest as he does most people. And that's preferable."

"Honestly, I think the way he treats you is preferable, at least how you've described him. It's not him being an ass that's the issue, John. The issue… darling, you're already in a relationship. With him. I was already a little put off that you talk about him all the time, but I thought, 'hey, it's his work and his flatmate rolled up in one, I'll meet the man first.' And I did. And he's pissed you're on a date. Never mind gender."

"I really don't think that's it, and I'm the one who lives with him so I should know."

"Sometimes an outsider sees more than those up close."

Jeremy kissed him on the forehead, smiled sadly, and waved goodbye as he walked away, not looking back. John watched, the fury in him growing. He swung around and stomped up the stairs to find Sherlock slouched in his chair, fingers steepled before him, looking directly at John as he walked in.

"Where's your little friend?" he asked, his voice back to its low, intense pitch.

"Gone," John grated out on the verge of shouting. "Where's the tea?"

"I didn't put any on."

"Didn't think you were going to. What were you playing at? Do you take pride in your ability to chase off every single one of my dates?"

Suddenly, Sherlock leapt up from his seat and started pacing. His movements were fluid, but frantic.

"What were *you* playing at? I could figure out most of what was going on with you, but why would you surprise me with this? Why wouldn't you just *tell* me? I thought you knew I wouldn't… wouldn't… what did you think I was going to do?"

"I don't know! This was different for me! This was hard for me! I just wanted a chance to digest what was going on and to try and be happy! Why do I have to run it by you first?"

"You don't." Sherlock had stopped pacing and had fixed a cold look on John. "You're right, of course, I am not your keeper. Just your friend."

John dropped into his seat and put his face in his hands, feeling like a shit all of a sudden.

"I'm sorry, you're right. You had no right to put on that horrid show on the stoop, but you're right. I should have told you, I should have talked to you. This has just been the oddest week or so of my life and I didn't know what to say."

"If it means anything, I didn't actually mean to chase him off."

John looked up. Sherlock was still standing there, hands on hips, but the coldness had gone out of his eyes.

"Are you planning on seeing him again? I don't mind that you've decided to date men, I really don't. I'd hoped you knew I would support you in most any decisions you make."

"Most?"

"Well, I'm not really in favour of anything that will move you out of here. Or tie dye. Well, the list is rather long," Sherlock smirked.

"Well, as for Jeremy, no. He's made it clear that he, like most of London, thinks you and I are in a relationship already and so there is no room for him. I guess I have to start over."

He met Sherlock's eyes, trying to figure out what he was thinking. He could see the gears turning. Quickly, as usual. He had that look on his face he always got when he just didn't understand how John could completely miss all the evidence in front of him. John swallowed when Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what he had to say.

"I don't understand, John. Why are you putting yourself, and me, through all of this? It's rather dull watching you date. The solution to your issue is perfectly evident. If you want a romantic relationship with a man, what's wrong with me?"

"What?"


	5. What?

John stared at Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't moved, his expression hadn't changed, and he still looked honestly perplexed. John looked at him like he had sprouted another head, anyway.

"You want to know what's wrong with you? How much time do you have?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat down in his own chair, making sure he and John were at eye level.

"I am aware of what most people *think* is wrong with me. Most people are blithering idiots. I didn't mean that, and you know it. I want to know why you haven't simply asked me to be in a romantic relationship with you."

"You've got to be kidding."

John didn't know what to think. The minute he thought he had Sherlock mostly pegged (you couldn't entirely know his mind, that was impossible) the man would say something to completely throw him off. But he did know when he was being serious, and Sherlock seriously thought it was obvious that John should have approached him with this arrangement the minute he figured out how he felt.

"What do you think I should have done?" he asked, his voice rising in pitch in direct proportion to the incredulity he felt. "Brought you a cup of tea and said 'hey Sherlock, I've just come to grips with the fact that I'm attracted to men, want to be my boyfriend?' "

"Don't be foolish. You were able to admit to yourself you like men, it isn't that far of a leap to admit that you want me. Oh, and simply bringing me tea and sitting in my lap would have been enough. I could have deduced the rest from there."

"Ok, now I know you're joking."

"Of course."

"Right. What makes you think I want you?"

"Oh, John, how do you handle being so oblivious all the time?"

John sighed and shook his head. He should feel insulted, but Sherlock clearly didn't mean it as an insult. You *knew* when that man insulted you, and right then Sherlock only looked confused. Eyes wide and searching, hair slightly rumpled… John shook his head.

"You are clearly attracted to me," Sherlock continued. "You have been from the beginning. I just had to decide if I were attracted to you, which I am. I have to admit, it has been advantageous on occasion."

"Advan… have you been taking advantage of me?"

"No. Yes. Sorry."

"When… never mind."

"I don't understand, John," Sherlock started again, leaning forward a bit, voice dropping in volume. "I have seen the evidence in your increased respiration, your dilated eyes, your glances and smiles. And I know I do the same things. Whenever you are as close to me as you were in the cab the other day I can't tear away from your eyes and I can't move away. I know my breathing becomes erratic, you're sure to have noticed that, at least. I've made it clear that you being gone for too long makes me unhappy. I touch you whenever I can. I know I treat you completely different than I do anyone else. How could you *not* see?"

John swallowed and took a shuddering breath. He couldn't believe it. Sherlock was right, now that he thought about it. He had been so busy trying to hide all of his signals (obviously useless and he should have known better) that he had missed all of the detective's. He ran so many past encounters through his head and saw everything. His heart was beating so loud he had to take another breath to calm himself.

"What happened to married to your work?"

"Since when have you interfered in my work? And besides, we had known each other less than a day and I thought you were coming onto me. What was I supposed to say?"

"I was not coming onto you."

"Don't get indignant." Sherlock's smile had taken on a decidedly mischievous tilt. "And you most certainly were, though I realized later that you didn't realize you were."

"Ok," John nodded, mostly to himself. "I am attracted to you. I am more than just attracted to you. I… I adore you, you could say."

"Really? I would have gone with love."

John raised an eyebrow at the matter of fact way Sherlock said the last.

"Oh, don't worry. I love you, as well."

"Shouldn't you be affected more by this than you are?"

"Don't you know me at all? I'm deeply affected by this. Honestly, I could use a cup of tea."

"Well, I'm not making it. You can make some for both of us."

"You might regret that."

"Nice try. I know you can do it."

John shook his head, for what felt like the millionth time, and smiled fondly at his… what? He never could put a label on Sherlock, why start now?

"What happens now?" he asked the taller man. "Where do we go from here?"

Sherlock gave him that soft smile, which John felt he now understood, got to his knees in front of John and placed his elegant hands on the armrests of John's chair.

"For right now, we can go here," he said as he leaned forward and up.

John met him half way, taking Sherlock's face in his hands and letting their lips brush together, allowing the other man to control the kiss. He kept it light and gentle, but full of unspoken promises.

"And from here on out," Sherlock continued, leaning back a little, "our real adventure begins."

John just grinned.

TWO DAYS LATER:

"Mrs Hudson! Don't you ever knock?!"

"Gracious, Sherlock! I know I startled you but you're going to hurt Dr Watson if you drop him like that again!"

"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson, just please leave."

"Well, you can't blame me for this; you've never minded me walking in before. No one bothered to tell me I might find you two snogging. In your skivvies. You really should put something on you're going to catch a cold!"

"Is she really going into the kitchen?"

"Yes John."

"Is she putting the kettle on?"

"Yes John."

"Should we get dressed?"

"No."


	6. After the Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do we still have to list spoilers for this series? If you didn't watch it, I'm sorry. I'm also sorry for the final line.

He had been numb in the aftermath. At first, he had wept so long and so hard that he had actually thrown up, but then the numbness set in. John didn't know how long he sat in Bart's just staring at the wall before Molly came to him, dried tear tracks down her face, to check on him and to send him home.

But he couldn't go home, because anger and disbelief had started to worm their way through the numbness. Anger at Sherlock for leaving him, for making him *watch*, for trying to make him believe that he was a fraud. Disbelief because he knew Sherlock, knew he wasn't a fraud, and with that knew he couldn't possibly be dead.

For some reason, the man had faked his death, probably to protect John in some stupid, convoluted way. John was not going to stand for that. No. If he had to break down every door in London to find the truth, he would damn well find it. So, when Molly came to him, he started his attack.

"I need to see him."

"John," she said quietly, her voice full of pain and sympathy. "You can't. It was bad."

"I've seen plenty of bad bodies."

"Yes, but not his."

"Don't care, take me to him."

"No, John, I can't do that."

"I know you can't," John rounded on her, his eyes blazing and his mouth set in a cruel line. "You can't because there no longer *is* a body. I don't know how he did it, I *saw him jump*, but he's not dead. I know he's not dead. Where is he, Molly?"

"John," Molly looked scared, and John wanted to know why. "Please, that's insane. Of course he is, it hurts, and I know it feels impossible, but he is. You have to let this go."

"Let it go?" Now John's voice took on a dangerous edge. "That man is, and I'm not putting too fine a point on this I assure you, the love of my life. He means more to me than every other human on this planet combined. And for some reason, he faked his death and isn't letting me in on it. I want to know why. I want to see him, now!"

"John, please, I just can't take you to his body, no one faked anything…"

"I'll find out, one way or another."

John got to his feet and stormed down the hallway, his new purpose chasing away the fear and agony he had been feeling. When he glanced back at Molly, he saw that she had pulled out her phone and was sending a rapid text. And John knew who she was texting. Good.

He walked out of the hospital and waited. He knew it wouldn't take long, and sure enough, a large black car pulled up and the driver stepped out, holding the door open for John. John slid in across from Mycroft Holmes and the driver resumed his seat and started driving again.

"Why, John, are you giving Ms Hooper such a hard time?"

"I'm giving her a hard time? What the hell do you think this is doing to me? Where is Sherlock?"

"I'm afraid he's back there, cold and dead, and while I know you don't believe this, that's a fact that is as hard on me as it is on you. He was my brother, after all."

"Oh, I'm sure it's hard on you," John spat at him. "It would be your fault, after all. You told Moriarty everything he needed to *destroy* him. But, despite that, I don't believe he died. I don't know how he faked it, but between you and Molly, I'm sure he could."

"John, please, you saw it with your own eyes. You must stop torturing yourself."

"I know what I saw! And I know Sherlock! Where. Is. He."

Mycroft met his eyes calmly, picking him apart. John matched him stare for stare until the car finally pulled to a stop and the driver opened the door for him.

"Where are we?"

"My home, so please, if you would," Mycroft smiled, in a very condescending way, motioning John to exit the vehicle.

John found himself in a much nicer section of London than he normally travelled, but he barely gave it a second thought. Completely ignoring Mycroft, he headed up the front steps and through the door that was being held open for him by a manservant.

"I did try," Mycroft announced after the door had been closed behind him.

"Try what?"

John froze in his tracts at the sound of the voice that had been a daily part of his life. Sherlock Holmes walked in from the room beyond, holding a book, and flipping through it. He didn't look as if he had taken a dive off a roof. His suit was pressed, his hair recently combed and his flawless pale skin unbroken. He looked perfect. And perfectly startled when he looked up and saw John.

"John?"

John briefly noted that Sherlock dropped the book and was coming to him, arms held out. John met him halfway, his balled up fist connecting with the side of his face. A very startled Sherlock fell to the floor, landing on his backside. He looked up at John for just a moment before rising to his feet and pulling John into his arms.

"I was just trying to protect you," he whispered into the smaller man's hair. "They told me I should tell you, but he was going to kill you. If his hired assassins thought I was alive, they would kill you. And they still will, even though he's dead."

John wasn't used to hearing Sherlock babble, but since just that morning he thought he would never see him again, he just held on tight and let his silent tears soak into the front of his shirt.

"I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry," and his voice hitched, and John knew he was crying as well, and he couldn't stand that. He pulled back and grabbed his face.

"It's alright. I'm just so grateful that you're alive. Ok, scratch that, I'm pissed you kept me out of the loop. But we'll get over that and maybe you'll learn to never do that again."

Sherlock nodded once and leaned into his partner, kissing him hard. John slid his hands around to the back of his head, tangling his fingers in his soft, curly hair, deepening the kiss, drinking in his taste. By the time they pulled apart, they were both breathing heavy. Sherlock rested his forehead against John's and pinned him with his stare.

"I have to leave, John. I have to take care of Moriarty's network or you'll never be safe."

"Can't you trust the authorities to take care of this? Please, Sherlock, I can't go back to Baker Street without you."

"Then don't. Come with me. You know as well as I that Scotland Yard is helpless. They can't take care of this mess; it has to be me… and you. I should have never tried to keep you away. You're my partner; I can do this twice as fast with you."

"Yes, let's go. Our biggest adventure."

Sherlock pulled back and looked at his brother.

"Text Molly. I'm sure she's still holding onto that body she had set aside for John. Oh, and we need another set of papers and a second ticket to Bolivia."

"Bolivia?"

"It's already been taken care of," Mycroft replied, still standing by the door. "I did tell you he wouldn't let you leave without him."

"Bolivia."

"Yes, John, please try and keep up, love," Sherlock held his hand out. John grabbed it and let himself be dragged into the adjoining room where he was promptly pulled down onto a couch. "This, my dear Watson, could be dangerous."

John laughed, kissing him on his bruising cheek.

"No shit, Sherlock."

The End


	7. Deleted Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff from the story that didn't make the final cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I leave my original note where I had it. Enjoy. Or don't. I'm not your mother :P

Ok, I actually wrote these at the end of Chapter Five, right after the scene with Mrs Hudson. I just didn't like the flow of it, and the texts between them and Molly, I decided that would have gone differently, but I just couldn't work it out. Given more time, I probably could have worked it out, but I didn't want to take more time lol. However, I still think these are worth reading, so here are the Deleted Scenes from Another Way 'Round the Problem! Hope you enjoy and, once again, thank you to all the reviews, followers and favoriters (yeah, not a word, oh well).

-Astrild

THREE DAYS AFTER THAT

"Well, Lestrade, you were absolutely right. This is murder, not suicide. John, could you pass that evidence bag?"

Sherlock took the proffered bag into his gloved hand, stopping to catch John's hand and press a kiss to his palm. Lestrade and Donovan gaped.

"Thank you."

His thanking John seemed to startle them even more. As Sherlock collected the evidence he needed to prove that the man in front of him had died at someone else's hands, Donovan pulled John aside, much to his annoyance.

"What? What horrible thing are you going to say about him now? I won't tolerate it, I hope you understand."

"Thank you, Dr Watson."

"What?"

"Thank you. You know how I've always felt about him. But, maybe now, with you, he won't end up scattering bodies across London."

"He was never going to do that."

"If you say so."

AND THE DAY AFTER THAT

Got a new body in. Nobody claiming. Interested? – Molly

Maybe tomorrow. – SH

Didn't you say you wanted to test post mortem cigarette burns? – Molly

Yes, but it can wait. – SH

Are you sure? I'll get take away. – Molly

Molly, stop texting Sherlock. – JW

Why, you two shagging? LOL – Molly

Actually, yeah. And he's getting distracted. – JW

There was a long pause, and John actually started to feel bad for his last message. Bad enough to push Sherlock away.

Molly? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have sprung that on you. – JW

Oh, it's alright. I was expecting it. I'm not blind. – Molly

Yeah, but still. – JW

At least I was trying to be tactful, for once. – SH

Yes, you were, thank you. – Molly

As you two were! And I am happy for you, really. – Molly

"Am I really that big of an ass?"

"No, John, you just think with the wrong brain sometimes. Which I'm perfectly fine with."

"What?"

"Distracted again. Perfect."


End file.
